Dirty Old Men

My dog likes it when I’m topless.

I guess I should explain but, somehow, I feel the explanation will also sound a little seedy. You see, it happened like this – my dogs are getting older. The elder (and smaller) of my pupperonis turned 11 in March. This makes him over 80 in the proverbial “dog years” equation. And while he’s still a fairly spry 80, he is showing his age in some areas. He’s cranky about people petting him when he doesn’t feel like it, if you don’t like getting your hand ripped off it’s best to let this sleeping dog lie (and his sleeping time is up to about 22 hours a day vs. the mere 20 hours he slept in his younger years), he takes pain meds for his “bad back” and, most significantly to this story, he can no longer leap tall buildings in a single bound. As a pup he could bounce his way over any obstacle, but now he no longer has the strength (or maybe it’s just the will – he is awfully apathetic nowadays) to hop onto my bed each night.

Now I know what you’re thinking – why does he need to be in my bed? Can’t he just sleep in a dog bed so we can have a normal, non-co-dependent dog/owner relationship? Well, okay, you’re right … but that’s not the point of this story so let’s just stick the point, okay?

And the point is this – I got tired of listening to him whimper and whine each night when he couldn’t get up into bed so I broke down and bought him some doggy steps so that he could climb in that way (because that’s just how dog-gone bad our co-dependence is), even if they are hideous and totally ruin the otherwise perfect décor of my bedroom. But the problem is getting him to actually use these ugly stairs. You know what they say about teaching old dogs new tricks – well it isn’t easy. He just sits there and stares at the stairs (see what I did there?) and when you try to force his little paws onto the steps he flips out and runs away. Even when I have doggy crack (better known to you as “cheese”) waiting at the top for him as a reward.

But there is one thing that works. One thing that gets him to climb to the tippy top every time – my naked boobs.

It’s funny because I’ve never really thought they’re much to look at personally. Given the rampant childhood obesity rate we have right now your average third grade boy probably has moobs that are bigger than my pathetic little lady sacks. Nonetheless, my little Munchkin pup runs right up his doggy stairs every time I flash them for him. I mean, not in a creepy way … no really. It happened the first time as I was sitting on the bed changing into my pajamas. It was harmless really – I pulled off my bra and before I even had my sleep shirt on he had scurried up the stairs to greet me. I was excited that he finally did it – I didn’t even think a thing about the circumstances. Until he did it again a few days later, when I sat on the bed after I had gotten out of the shower and my towel slipped down a bit revealing my ta-tas. By the third similar such incident a pattern was emerging – and I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with the direction it was headed.

So I stopped his training. I let the stairs just sit there unused. But, little did I know, this was just the beginning. His dirty old man tendencies were about to go public.

You know when you see someone who has a giant scar on their face and you totally want to know what that’s all about but, of course, no one is rude enough to actually ASK how he/she got that scar? It’s bad manners, right? Then after awhile you just forget about the scar – it becomes normal to you and you don’t even notice it anymore. Then one day someone new comes in and says “Hey, what’s with Pat’s scar?” And all of a sudden you’re like “Oh, I haven’t even thought about that in ages!” Well my Munchkin’s wiener is sort of like that.

If you’ve met Munchkin before you totally get what I mean. But, if not, let me explain – his willy, johnson, peter, pecker – whatever you call it – hangs out at all times. Most dogs retract theirs unless excited or aroused, but not my Munchkin – he just lets his hang on out there 24-hours a day for the whole world to enjoy. And, while I can’t tell you exactly when this little “problem” of his started, I can say that it’s been this way so long now (at least 10 years) that I can’t even recall a time when this wasn’t the case. And, so, weird as it sounds, his dong hanging out in the open is just “normal” for me. I don’t even notice it anymore, and I never really think about it (unless I’m taking his picture. I’ve become a real master at cropping shots so that his little lipstick doesn’t show. But even then I’ve gotten so accustomed to cropping it out of photos that even that is so natural I don’t even think about it anymore). It’s just always there. Oh sure, I brought it up to the vet a few times but, aside from the “doctor” manipulating it back in there once using a disturbing amount of KY jelly while I just stood there watching my dog be semi-molested by a “trained professional” only to see the whole thing prove unsuccessful as Munchkin popped his red rocket right back out again once the whole thing was over, everyone at the vet’s office seemed to think it was just fine – “If it’s not bothering Munchkin then it shouldn’t bother you” they said. And so I’ve let it be.

Not that it isn’t still disgusting. Especially when he meets (or should I say “meats”) new people. He jumps on them, sits in their lap, begs to be held by them – all while he rests his little prick on them (he also enjoys sitting in the middle of a group of people and just licking it endlessly for hours in plain sight of everyone – but I really think this behavior is just macho showoff mentality that all men would employ if they had the ability). So, yes, playing with my dog does come with a warning – watch out, if he jumps up on your lap you might end up with some naked dog penis resting on your exposed flesh! And the first few times I took him to the groomer they didn’t know how to approach trimming his fur “down there.” But over time it just became a thing that was known. My friends were aware (and knew to be cautious), the groomers learned how to aim their razors at just the right spots, the vets overlooked it and we all pretended we didn’t see it for awhile.

Until one day I took him to a doggy day camp. You know, so he could get out a little – feel like a young pup again. But I didn’t even think – I’m so used to it now that it didn’t even cross my mind – that suddenly I’d be exposing his disgusting display of constantly aroused manliness to a whole new group of people. And they were, apparently, alarmed by it. They thought perhaps the camp was too “stimulating” for him. They were concerned about how he could be THAT EXCITED by camp ALL DAY. In short, they were calling him that dirty old man who lurks around playgrounds and stares just a little too intensely at the children playing there. They thought he was a pervert. And, frankly, given the recent boob incidents I’m not sure I can argue with them. But I will tell you one thing – ever since he came home from camp that day he’s been jumping right up onto the bed again like the old days … no stairs needed. GAR thinks that being at camp with all those younger dogs renewed his sprightliness but I have another theory – much like 50-year-old cougars apply thick makeup and tight leopard print dresses clearly designed to be worn by women half their age in an effort to trick young men into thinking they’re 19 again, I think my Munchkin is in training … preparing for the next time he goes back to doggy camp … so that he can pass for a younger, more athletic dog and maybe bag himself a hot little Pekinese.

Hmph … men … no matter how old they are they always think they can get the young ones.

Incidentally I’ve recently been turned on to the site Dog Shaming, where people post photos of their pooches next to handwritten signs declaring their wrongdoings. “I eat dirty underwear” and “I crapped in the baby’s crib” – stuff like that. But I wouldn’t dream of doing that to poor Munchkin (no, I only shame him in long form essay style on my personal blog). But my other dog – Mister Mustache – well, I might consider turning him in to the site. That sicko has a fetish for watching ladies do their business on the toilet. But that’s a story for another day.

Peru

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The 7 Evil Xes

Every Valentine’s Day (in recent history anyway), GAR and I stay in, avoid overpriced, overcrowded restaurants and watch our traditional V-Day movie – Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. I guess it’s sort of a love story, though the main character spends the majority of the flick battling his would-be girlfriend’s seven evil exes in an effort to eventually date her himself (even though he already has a girlfriend – okay, so really it’s not so romantic, but we love this movie, so in that way it is a LOVE story… sort of).

For our own love story, GAR and I never had to scale such lofty barriers. Although, at a couple points in our courtship, one or both of us were dating other people and had to play the waiting game for those doomed relationships to meet their end before ours could begin ... and some of those exes hung on a little longer than we would have preferred (that’s sort of like fighting them to the death Scott Pilgrim style, right?) ... but we were patient, and waited, and prevailed. It’s not something we reflect on often – in fact (call me cruel if you must), I never really think about my exes at all (aside from this recent post on my past travel experiences with them). I mean, not unless it comes up in conversation (for example: Who did you go to Venice with?). But other than those small mental triggers, I have no reason to dwell on those who are in the past. Any why should I? I am completely happy in my present life ... In my marriage ... In everything. And back when I was with those guys? Well, let’s just leave them where they belong – in a past place I wouldn’t ever long to go back to.

It’s not a lack of nostalgia, or even of resentment, so much as it is a place of current contentment. And I’ve never been one to complain about my crazy ex (we get it people – your ex was crazy. That’s why you’re not with him/her anymore. Also, I bet he/she is out there complaining about you, who they also call their crazy ex … it’s the circle of breakups if you will). Crazy or not, I just don’t really care – the past is the past – and I’m certainly not wasting a minute of my happiness feeling angry over a former boyfriend. But, okay, I will admit that twice this year this mantra of mine has been tested when I saw my two least favorite exes (because, even if I’m not angry at them, I still know which ones I’d least want to ever see again – that’s just logic) – one at a mutual friend’s wedding (and we mutually agreed to pretend we didn’t see each other in that small reception room) and again yesterday when I saw the craziest (because, let’s be honest, I still know he’s crazy even if I don’t shoot my mouth off about it all the time) of my exes at a sports bar (and he appeared to be out on a first date – you can always spot a first date a mile away. A crazy ex would have gone up to his table and warned the girl what she was getting herself into. Not me. I’m the type of ex who’s just crazy enough to let her find out for herself). And honestly I didn’t feel an ounce of anything at all toward these boys (yes boys, not men … I can still make some jabs, right?) Plus, okay, it did help to see that they’re both still single – just like I knew they would be – because, while I always say there’s a lid for every pot, some pots are just warped and bent and misshapen over time so finding the right fit requires some serious shape shifting abilities on the part of the lid and, really, what self respecting lid is going to change herself THAT much for such a worthless pot …

But I seem to have gotten off topic. Where was I again? Oh yes, I DO have a point to all this. It’s coming up next.

Despite my playful barbs at the expense of my exes, I really believe that part of why GAR and I worked so well as a couple from day 1 of our relationship is that we didn’t drag all that extra baggage – anger, resentment, damage – from our past into our future together. Just like at an airport, there’s a hefty price to pay for bringing all that junk with you, so it’s best to just carry the bare minimum. Oh sure, Adele may have made millions off of dwelling on the wrongdoings of her former lover, but unless your singing voice sounds like an angel knitting a sweater made of pure gold (and I’m guessing it doesn’t), there’s nothing to gain from this sort of unhealthy loathing. GAR recently shared his “rooting effect” – the guidelines that he believes govern your ability to root for certain college teams. Well I have my own rules – 8 Simple Rules for Dating (it’s a title that really just rolls off the tongue, don’t you think?). I won’t bother with them all now because, eh, I’m just the type of gal who’s crazy enough to let you figure it out for yourself if you haven’t already. BUT, I will sell you on the overarching premise on which they are based: Finding love is all about timing.

Okay, that was perhaps a little oversimplified, let me delve a little deeper: It’s not so much about finding “the one,” it’s about finding “the one” at the right time in his or her life. Well, and your life too (I am always dubious of relationships where one person is still bitching extensively about someone they dated in the past … aren’t you ready to be happy in the future?) – but for the purposes of my rules it’s all about it being the right time for him/her (just this one time – after that you can try to make it about you you you again. I wish you luck in that, honestly). Meet him (I’m just going to use the word “him” from now on, it’s just easier, don’t you think? You can sub out “her” if that’s what applies to you) too early in his life and he’s not yet ready to settle down. Meet him too late and either he’s acquired all sorts of that nasty baggage I referenced earlier, or he’s become too independent and set in his ways to make room for you (he needs to still be somewhat pliable, moldable, flexible. No, we’re not trying to “change” you, we’re just trying to adapt to each other’s preferences … and, okay, yeah, we’re also trying to change you), or both. I believe that I met my GAR just a smidge too late. Not so late that it didn’t work out, but had I met him a year or two earlier I think he might have been a little less stubborn and I would have been able to get better results out of changing him (but I can work with what I’m given). That said, I am nearly positive that had I met him 5+ years earlier, it wouldn’t have worked at all – the place he was in at that moment would not have connected with me. I would have ruled him out as too immature, too arrogant, too much of a player. See what I mean, it’s really NOT about you, it’s about him … and, of course, it’s about timing.

Or let’s have this video put it another way …

While I’m glad that GAR and I managed to get our timing right, the truth is that it’s not as hard as it seems. And it’s never going to be the right time if you’re still mentally fighting those 7 evil exes – or expecting the next guy (or gal – you get it) in your life to battle those demons for you. But, yeah, sure, you can still hope they die alone in a cat carcass infested hoarder house like you see on tv – that’s okay. Just don’t bother dwelling on it too much, okay?

Got Wood?

In Peru I would wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air. The high altitude made it so that very little oxygen made it into my lungs, which left me feeling woozy and light headed – with a piercing headache to boot.

Last night I awoke with that same feeling in my own house.

No, it wasn’t some sort of trippy vacation flashback. Nor did I travel back in time or magically transport to a high altitude location while I slept (I know, that was totally what you were thinking it MUST be). No, I really was choking – struggling to breathe. But this time I’m fairly certain it’s due to all the dust I ingested.

It’s not like we normally live like Pig Pen from the Peanuts, with a constant flurry of filth encircling us (seriously, why did no one ever call CPS? I’m fairly certain that child needed to be removed from whatever disgusting home he was living in), normally our house is only a healthy amount of messy (you know, the kind of messy where you’d be embarrassed if someone dropped by unexpectedly, even though, honestly, all that’s “wrong” are some dirty dishes in the sink and unopened mail on the counter). But right now it looks more like some sort of bomb went off – concrete floors, doors off the hinges, furniture all stacked up and shoved together, rubble all around and, as I mentioned earlier, lots and lots and lots of dust all over everything (so much that I’ve taken to writing little messages in all the powder. Think of it like a love note written in lipstick on a mirror … just far, far less romantic). And all the dust is also, it seems, settling into my lungs while I sleep.

But it’s all for a good cause – at the end of all this madness we’ll have gorgeous wood flooring throughout much of our home (except the bedrooms. While I agree that it looks nice in bedrooms as well there’s just something totally “homey” about having carpet under your bed. And I need – NEED – to be able to dig my toes into the carpet as I plunk my feet down onto the ground each morning. And, no, a rug won’t do – it has to be carpet. Also, notice how I used the word “need” – repeatedly even? This seems to be a recurring problem in our household – not knowing the difference between “need” and “want.” Actually, this is HUGE problem in America in general, but let me get back to my digression before I digress even further. Earlier this year, after spending an entire week in a cruise ship hot tub on a vacation we “needed” to the Mexican Riviera, we decided that, suddenly, we “needed” to shell out top dollar to fix the broken heater on our hot tub at home. Since then we have used that bad boy approximately half a dozen times. Money well spent. And, now, of course we “need” this wood flooring to replace our perfectly good carpet and tile much in the same way I “needed” to get our fully functional pool resurfaced last year instead of buying a new car – something I actually did need and ended up buying as well … and, of course, I bought a ridiculous Mustang with virtually no leg room in the back because who “needs” a backseat – or a practical car – anyway? But perhaps I should get back to how fabulous these much “needed” wood floors are).

Nonetheless, unlike in Peru – where we drank coca tea to help with the altitude sickness (coca tea, incidentally, is not the same as cocoa, which I originally thought … and hoped. No, this stuff is very bitter. Perhaps that’s because it’s made from the same leaves that produce cocaine. Which I’m fairly certain explains why it helps with altitude sickness – or, let’s be honest, any sickness really – because YOU’RE DRINKING COCAINE. And now that I have Googled it I know that, because I drank it, I could test positive for a drug test. File that under the heading “Things I wish I’d know before I went to South America.” See what I mean about Europeans being pussies in comparison?) – there is no remedy for this sort of breathing ailment. All I can do is wait for the dust to (literally) settle and then scrub every inch of everything.

Now it’s not like we’ve never lived “life under construction” before (in case you never noticed that is actually the name of this blog – go figure). After demolishing and completely renovating two bathrooms and one custom built master closet, power sanding and cutting and kicking up dust from what felt like miles of baseboards and trim, GAR constructing a new mantle for our fireplace from scratch (an accomplishment he’s incredibly proud of but, because no one realizes how much work went into it, gets little to no praise from people who visit us – hint, hint … keep this in mind next time you see him. His ego “needs” this), and pretty much living in a constant state of tearing things down and rebuilding them from the (dusty) ground up since we moved in, we’ve certainly had our fair share of debris floating about before. But this is more all encompassing – more dustier than ever before … and with more life displacement than ever before as our furniture, tv, appliances and whatnot remain unusable (or at least that’s the excuse we use for eating gluttonous takeout every night while lying in bed in our pjs watching Olympic water polo for hours on end. I stand to lose several thousand dollars while simultaneously gaining several thousand pounds by the time this refurb is over).

Even the pups are unsure where to sleep. All their normal resting spots have been covered in cold, hard wood (apparently they too enjoy fluffy carpet beneath their paws as they wake each morning). And I’m constantly hearing the pitter patter of tiny feet (no, I’m not pregnant, but dog claws make quite a clatter. We’ve had to crank the Olympic water polo up to 11 just to drown out the enhanced sound that their walking makes on our new ground). But, mostly they’re just pissed off that they’re being locked up all day during the construction when normally they have free reign of this hippie compound we carelessly allow them to wander in and out of at their leisure. And to placate them we’re taking drastic measures – we signed them up for doggy day camp. Oh yes, we’ve become THOSE people … the type of pretentious yuppies who pay for their pampered pooches to play with other privileged pets because they simply can’t be left alone for even a moment.

Or, well, that was the plan anyway. But, as it turns out, it wasn’t quite as simple as I had hoped. Apparently getting into a posh pet playgroup has quite the qualification process. It starts with trips to the vet to acquire the mandatory paperwork, test and shots; followed by an introductory “interview” process and assessment (which both pups passed with flying colors. It seems my dogs are perfectly behaved when they’re trying to impress others whereas their behavior is more along the lines of deranged, barking prison escapee when in my presence); which is then followed up by a “test” day where one dog at a time is slowly introduced to the pooches lucky enough to have already been accepted into this canine cult. At this rate my dogs might finally get a day camp visit by the time we’ve moved on to our next home project, or the one after that.

So I guess, for now, they’ll continue to suffer as their world of squeaky toys and free reign doggy door visits is turned upside down. And, thanks to being fresh out of drinkable liquid cocaine, I guess I’ll continue to suffer – and cough up some dust – a bit longer too. But it will totally be worth it. See – how pretty!

I sooooo NEEDED these floors.

Europe is for Pussies

GAR uttered these words to me on day 5 of our adventure in Peru. We had been ATVing through the streets of Urubamba, a sleepy town in the foothills of the Andes, and we caused quite a stir. We were essentially revving through people’s backyards. Kids screamed, locals shook their firsts at us in frustration, some terrified sheep baaed frantically as they unsuccessfully attempted to leap over tall fences, little girls were crying, and a very angry bull was snorting and preparing to charge … and one member of our group, a 12-year-old boy, had rolled his ATV right over, breaking his arm (the doctors would later say it wasn’t broken, but we were all fairly certain a human wrist doesn’t bend that way all on its own. So he used the belt from his hotel room robe to fashion a sling for it as he soldiered on for 5 more days with a swollen, purple – and clearly broken – arm in tow). Never mind the fact that this youngster wasn’t old enough to have so much as a learner’s permit back in the States, he had passed the “training” lesson for the ATV – which consisted of the leader saying “You ever ridden one of these? No? Okay, you’ll be fine” and then giving us a 10 second rundown of how to shift gears before taking off – and that was “good enough” by South America standards.

And the whole trip had been that way. We had been thrust onto whitewater rafts and set adrift into the (admittedly pretty mild) rapids. Taken a hair raising bus ride up the side of cliff and then left to pedal (well, not so much pedal, but hold on for dear life while our wheels whizzed furiously fast beneath us) down the face of a mountain. Climbed up and down ruins and craters using “steps” that were nothing more than shingles that protruded slightly more from the rock face than others. And performed Olympic caliber balance beam maneuvers to slither along a tiny ledge that abuts giant salt pans – don’t fall in or else you’ll be left to turn to jerky in the hot, hot, too close to the heavens, midday sun.

Now don’t get me wrong – up until the ATV accident I’m not sure that we had actually ever been in any real “danger” along the way. Oh sure, some kids ended up with scraped knees from taking a wrong step, and a subsequent tumble (one thing I learned during our excursions is that kids sneakers just do not have sufficient traction on the bottom. Oh sure, they have multi-colored lights and pop-out wheelies and every bell and whistle you can dream up. But treads? Nope, just not a feature they value I guess)… plus there were some cases of altitude sickness – both mild and more severe – which can happen to anyone who’s visiting a place that’s more than 12,000 miles above sea level (seriously, the people who live there develop enlarged hearts just to be able to pump enough blood through their weak little veins. How could our normal size hearts ever live up to theirs?) … and white water rafting (regardless how mild) always has some risks (no spinal injuries on our trip but we did have someone end up with a really nasty eye infection due to having too much dirt and mucky river water kicked up into her cornea) … but overall we hadn’t been exposed to anything too terrifying. But what did crack me up was just how laid back everyone was about safety. In North America we’re all bubble wrapped, covered in caution tape and secured into a harness before we even are allowed to go bumper bowling. And frankly, it takes the fun out of things. Oh sure it protects you from broken limbs, dismemberment and a perilous death – but at what cost?

All I’m saying is that up North, where we live, the thrill is gone. Where’s the excitement? Even on our recent cruise to Mexico, a decidedly third world country, GAR and I signed up for an “extreme” adventure – zip lining hundreds of feet off the ground, rappelling down waterfalls and crossing “unstable” rope bridges (right … it was totally just like the skeleton piano bridge scene in “Goonies”) high in the jungle – that included a hefty security briefing before being buckled and strapped into every means of protective garb imaginable. Oh sure, we all came back safe and sound (except for some nasty mosquito bites and a bruise I picked up when I lost my footing rappelling down a cliff), but I was never once worried that I WOULDN’T make it through okay. And, as a result, the whole thing felt so sterile. What was supposed to be an “exhilarating, once-in-a-lifetime thrillfest” was, instead, a little hum drum actually. (When we got home we saw an episode of “South Park” where the boys went zip lining and were so bored they spent the next 6 hours just trying to break free and go home – hilarious!)

That’s just how we roll in North America … and, to GAR’s point (and the title of this post), it’s the same problem in Europe. All beauty with none of the thrill. And this is where South America kicks all of our asses.
I tried to keep this in mind later that evening as I puked my brains out.

Now let me tell you something about the incredible, edible egg – it can’t be trusted. If you’re sitting at home right now noshing on some raw cookie dough as you read this I implore you to bake that shit before you eat it – please. In the summer of ’09 Nestlé’s delicious pre-made batter gave me eColi and it’s the sickest I’ve ever been. Bad eggs I learned later. In the summer of ’12 (on this very trip actually – see, this wasn’t a total tangent with no purpose, I promise) I suffered the second worst case of food poisoning I’ve ever had, once again the result of some serious egg mishandling. Oh sure, I should have known better – swallowing raw eggs is for Hans and Franz type bodybuilders. Cartoon characters and cocky jocks who are trying so hard to be macho that it comes off as comical. And yet … well … I am a sucker for liquor. I mean, come on, we all know that by now, right? And in Peru the local liquor is Pisco – a type of brandy that is traditionally served in a sour drink that is topped off with frothy (and raw) egg whites. And who am I to doubt an entire nation? Who am I to question the safety of drinking what millions of Peruvians drink?

Which leads me back to the part of the story where I’m vomiting up all of my internal organs and reminding myself that – oh right, you forgot … safety is not the top priority in South America.

The next morning I told my tour guide about my stomach pains and she had me drink some fizzy medicine and then told me to jump up and down as fast as I could – “It will make you throw up,” she announced. A fact that I wished she would have shared BEFORE I drank the mysterious liquid since, honestly, throwing up MORE was not really what I had in mind. Plus, I had already taken some mysterious, unmarked pills the night before that the front desk had given me. And some energy pills that were in an incorrectly labeled Bayer bottle (which did NOT cure my serious headache but instead caused me to be forcefully awake while suffering from a migraine). I mean, really, how many shady, unknown medications should one person ingest in one day? And yet here I was, a belly full of acid, and now some sort of bubbly mixture as well, bopping up and down until I literally collapsed. But I didn’t puke anymore. And it didn’t help with the pain either.

Not wanting to be the type of pussy who can only handle fancy panty European vacations I sucked it up and boarded the bus, which lead to the train, which led to a much more terrifying, drive you nearly off a cliff (but hey, I don’t question why they don’t make the roads big enough for two cars to pass each other but instead make it so that it’s barely big enough for one, resulting in a pissing match to see which person will put their car in reverse and nearly drive backwards to their doom so the other one can squeak by on a dirt path the width of two pebbles side-by-side with no guard rails on either side … I guess that’s just how they like it), bus to Machu Picchu. And behold! It was glorious! Until I threw up some more all over it.

Which is how I ended up in the infirmary right there in the side of this former Incan civilization … along with several of my dinner companions from the night before (do you still need MORE proof that you really shouldn’t eat raw eggs?) Rough translations of bodily functions were attempted in Spanish before people just resorted to miming “explosive diarrhea.” I like to think it brought it us all closer together … but mostly because there were only two dingy cots in the clinic and half of a dozen of us huddled together to use them. Oh – here’s another fun fact about Peru. They don’t believe in outfitting bathrooms with toilet seats, paper products or running water. This is true even in doctor’s offices. Which brings me back to my previous point about bodily functions and food poisoning … fun times all around. From what I could tell the doctor was anxious to give me IV fluids and, despite my previous points indicating safety be damned, I decided that I’m not quite THAT much of a risk taker given the overall cleanliness of the place in general (the infirmary was littered with an oddly large number of dead butterflies – and live bugs too ... but I focused on the butterflies. It was kind of beautiful actually, but also seriously haunting).

Finally I persuaded the doc to skip and the IV and instead load me up with the thing South Americans are largely known for – drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. He freely doled out antibiotics, meds to kills off any parasites that might be living inside of me (yes please!), some pills with a purpose that was not clearly outlined but (I’m assuming based on the results) seemed to be aimed at helping me expel any remaining poison from my system, and some shady unmarked “pain pills” … which I conserved and tried not to take too many of lest I was accidentally taking opium or crack or some other drug I’ve only read about in my high school “Just Say No” drug pamphlets. (Incidentally I brought some of these pills back with me into the U.S. I’m not sure if this qualifies as drug running, but it should be noted that I was searched by 3 different airport officials … coincidence? Eh, maybe.)

While the heavy doses of narcotics did help some, nothing could have prepared me for the train ride back to town. I drifted off only momentarily before awaking to find the devil in my face. Yes, the devil.

Actually, at the time I had no idea what this creature was, but it was screeching and dancing down the train aisles and (or so I’m told) he was supposed to represent some sort of Incan devil (though that still in no way explains WHY he was on our train). And, stranger still, his “performance” proceeded a fashion show made up of finely woven alpaca goods. The Peruvian people are nothing if not random. (It should be noted that earlier in our trip we were introduced to another member of Incan folklore – the God of Prosperity. This short, stout masked creature grunted loudly while marching around bearing items that represented wealth around his neck – American money, a house, cigarettes and other random items adorned his attire. Between the God of Prosperity grunting and the trilling, haunting sounds made by this devil creature my drug induced dreams quickly turned to nightmares over the next few evenings.)

Nevertheless, I made it back to the hotel and slept … and then looked at some llamas … and then slept … and struggled to breathe in Cusco, the crazy 2-mile-high city … and slept … and I think there were more ruins maybe? The rest of the trip was a little hazy actually, what with the lack of air, my inability to keep down any food and the onslaught of meds the docs in “The States” are reluctant to prescribe. But I think I had a blast. And, honestly, I lost a ton of weight. It was practically like spending a summer at fat camp … or some sort of cleansing spa (but with more hiking).

And to top it all off I even went paragliding (not to be confused with parasailing, which involves being pulled by a boat. Gliding, on the other hand, involves jumping off a cliff and praying for dear life). That’s right, I snuggled myself into some strange man’s crotch (I’m not kidding, you sort of “sit” right in his crotch), loaded a tiny sail on our backs and jumped. And it was … not nearly as scary as it seems actually. But I did it. I made it. I survived South America bitches. Not poison or the devil or a strong gust of wind could take me down. Take that Europe – with your fancy croissants and berets and lispy accents … you can’t light a candle to our neighbors down South.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I should probably see a proper doctor and figure out why I’m still having waking nightmares of brim fire and finely crafted alpaca wool sweaters.

From Vegetable Lasagna to Putumayo and Beyond: A Travel Memoir

Have you seen that episode of “Seinfeld” where Elaine and Puddy go on vacation to Europe and break-up and the whole plane ride home they are fighting, getting back together, breaking up again, and so on? This used to be my life.

But I’ll get to that in a minute …

Ahhh – that moment when you realize that the person you’re dating is “the one.” It comes at different times for every relationship, but once it hits you something in your brain just screams out “I am never letting you go!” (Though hopefully your brain doesn’t do this in a stalker, creepy, “Every Breath You Take” kind of way.) For me that moment came while on my first vacation with GAR.

Of course I have travelled with previous suitors before. And every single time it ended in disaster. And we’re not talking a “Oh, I learned that he’s really more of a ‘lay on the beach’ kind of guy whereas I’m a gal who prefers mountain climbing” type of vacation incompatibility. No, I’m talking about a full-scale, all-out, complete lack of respect or understanding for how we should be spending time together while on holiday. I don’t think you can really comprehend unless you’ve been in my shoes, strolling around Paris, debating where to grab some lunch and your current significant other insists that he MUST have a chili dog – a decidedly un-Parisian food item – and demands that you take him to Disneyland Paris (1 hour away) to acquire one and, when I laugh at what I think is quite obviously a joke (it HAS to be a joke, right?), he plops himself down on the ground in front of Notre Dame and begins to throw the world’s biggest temper tantrum, refusing to go anywhere else with me.

Yes. THAT happened. THAT is the type of vacation incompatibility I’m talking about here.

I once spent an entire weeklong cruise playing bingo alone, lounging by the pool alone, dining at the buffet alone and heading into port alone while my now-ex stayed in the stateroom catching up on books 3 & 4 of the Harry Potter series. I’ve strolled along the canals of Venice alone, spent hours alone in Barbados watching “Golden Girls” in Spanish, sat at a New York City diner alone drinking “the world’s best cup of coffee” (2 different times, at 2 different diners with the same claim to fame, after ditching 2 different guys) and tucked myself into a new age London hotel room “pod” alone – all due to similar type nonsensical blow outs with former beaus. So when an opportunity arose for GAR and I to take our first trip together – to Ireland and Scotland – I was more than a little nervous about the whole thing. After all, I was really pretty darn sure that this guy actually was THE ONE, but I knew from experience that things could all go downhill in a heartbeat (or should I say, go downhill in a meltdown at Europe’s oldest McDonald’s – because that’s been my experience).

The truth is that I’m a pretty laid back traveler. I’m not really so complex in my needs. I just want to see the typical sights, eat whatever food item that area is known for and have some fun surprises along the way (not surprises like watching my current “sweetheart” lay on the Parisian pavement and wail “I want a chili dog!” but, you know, FUN surprises). And I totally found everything I had been missing with GAR. We drank and laughed in just about every Dublin pub, almost got stranded on the west coast of Ireland when we missed our bus at the Cliffs of Moher, went hunting for Nessie on Loch Ness, found ourselves cheering on a team we’ve never heard of in a sport we didn’t really understand at the Hurling championship game, sampled haggis and blood pudding, blew out all the power in our rundown motel when I plugged my American hair straightener into a European outlet, and taunted a ghost named Mr. Boots in the Edinburgh vaults (which led GAR to believe he was being haunted for several days by a ghost who wanted to chop off his toes). In short – it was amazing. And I knew then that I had finally found my partner for life.

Since then GAR and I have had endless adventures together – at home in our day-to-day life and abroad. We got desperately lost in Monaco (a country that’s smaller than Central Park), drank endless liters of beer at Oktoberfest while dressed in lederhosen and a dirndl, rode out violent 25-foot waves in the Mediterranean – dodging puking cruisers as we attempted to walk upright, taught a bartender in Cabo how to make avocado margaritas, climbed the Alps, partied on Bourbon Street, bartered for goods in a Tunisian souk, drank wine made from garlic in LA, peered into the smoking crater at Mt. Vesuvius, engaged in snowball fights in 3 different countries, and feasted on everything from delicious charbroiled oysters in New Orleans and scrumptious crepes in Corsica, to flavorless schneeballen in Germany and foul, mysterious street vendor fair in Villefranche, and beyond.

Oh sure, some people prefer to head off the beaten track. A couple I know recently packed up all 4 of their kids and set off on a 21-state driving adventure that took them to wacky places that claim they have the biggest ball of twine or the largest wooden armadillo – stuff like that. And while I do see the fun in seeing those types of quirky things (aside from the fact that spending 17 days trapped in a car with 4 children is pretty much my ultimate idea of what Hell must be like), I don’t feel like I need to go out of my way to have an unexpected adventure – those moments can just as easily happen while visiting the Coliseum or touring Savannah … and many of my best vacation memories come from all those touristy spots.

And we even, somehow, manage to bring back the most generic souvenirs, no matter how hard we try. The giant beer stein debate we were embroiled in while in Germany led to us buying the same exact one I later saw at Epcot (for less money). We wandered through Mexican flea markets to track down an Aztec calendar (since the world is ending this year after all and we want to countdown to destruction ourselves), another item that, apparently, was on sale for cheaper at Epcot. And my Italian glass necklace? You guessed it – it’s also easily found (for less money) at the E(xperimental) P(rototype) C(ommunity) O(f) T(omorrow). From now on I should just save my money and efforts and buy everyone souvenirs from my own place of employment. “Here Mom, I got you this authentic Norwegian wood carving during my recent trip to ‘Scandinavia.’” (wink wink)

But now GAR and I are off to our next destination – a visit to continent #4 for us, South America (which, thankfully, is a place that is completely unrepresented at Epcot – ha ha!! Take that Walt Disney – you won’t foil me again). We’ll be heading to Peru to hike Machu Picchu, take a million stereotypical photos of the ruins at Moray and Maras, buy the same Alpaca wool scarves that everyone probably gets at the Pisac Market and learn how to make the classic Peruvian drink, a pisco sour. And even if our itinerary isn’t entirely unique, I’m sure we’ll find more than a few moments along the way that will make the whole thing completely extraordinary. ‘Cause that’s just how we roll.

And since I started this post with a Seinfeld reference I figure I should end it with one too  ...

I’ll be sure to post some photos of me feeding a llama while wearing a woven poncho when we get back.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some last-minute Al-paca-ing to do. It’s winter in Lima right now and I need to Peru-se my closet for sweaters. I South American’t wait to get going!

The Rooting Effect: A Sports Memoir

Do you know what the Rooting Effect (or Reflex) is? If you’re a parent, a person that works in any human development field or just paid attention during your educational experiences, you should. If you don’t know and you’re part of the first two groups I sincerely judge you and please picture me waving my index finger at you with disappointment and disgust. Actually, please stop reading this blog post immediately as you should be quite ashamed of yourself. If you are in the latter group? You’re cool … because school can be a bore. Well, except when pertaining to the movies Back to School, Summer School, and Old School.

OK, I think we’ve lost the others … let’s continue. The Rooting Effect is actually a reflex that can be seen in newborn babies. When touched on the cheek they will automatically turn their face toward the finger and make sucking (or rooting) motions. Essentially, it’s a basic instinct that assists to ensure successful breastfeeding. So what does this have to do with sports? I’ll get to that in a bit.

Countless people have come up to me and asked, “Hey Doc! Am I allowed to root for this team?” I always respond, “Why that’s an incredibly foolish question and of course you can root for that team, HOWEVER …” Now it’s the “however” that really alters things. We are ALL allowed to root for any team, but our rooting comes with different levels of credibility (As you continue reading please be mindful that I am only tackling – get it? “tackling” - collegiate sports. At this time you’re allowed 100% credibility in rooting for any professional and non-NCAA sport or the Olympics. This has been allowed for millenniums and I do not have the ability nor the power to change those guidelines. Why? Well that’s a totally different blog post.)

Credibility you say Doc? Yes, credibility I say. If you’ve attended a sporting event or simply watched a game at the bar you’ve certainly seen t-shirts and excited patrons, heard impassioned cheering and oodles of booing (or boodles). Have you ever wondered if these people are allowed to do this? Well of course they are. As I said earlier this is only about credibility AND you should pay attention better. We are typically molded to root for particular teams through socialization. This stems from our primary or extended family and our peers. You’ll see it everywhere from the baby that’s spitting up on a Texas Tech bib to that tween rocking a San Diego State hoodie with a heap of angst. Just like the infant that roots for survival, children root as well … maybe not for survival but household affection sounds pretty good. And since a newborn’s rooting is essentially sucking, a child’s rooting, of course, just plain sucks. But it’s a natural behavior and one that is and should be accepted. You wouldn’t expect a child in their sensorimotor phase to be able to pick a team (If you don’t know this term and are a parent or in any human development field it’s now your turn to please stop reading). Infants eventually grow out of the rooting effect and this behavior becomes extinct – and this is a great metaphor for life. Rooting should only occur as long as it is needed for "survival.” My point is this - You have until the age of 18 to breastfeed on any college team you choose. After that, you must autonomously create your own plight towards rooting credibility. 

Some may wonder what gives me the right to lay down these rules. Well, I have a Ph.D. in Counseling, so I’m automatically and overwhelmingly awesome in the areas of logic and emotion. So trust me when I say, “I got this and what I’m about to tell you is gospel.” Rooting for college sports may have 100% creditability in your world, but let’s be honest, that’s not the reality of how rooting is truly accepted. I now bequeath to you: THE GOSPEL of ROOTING.

Rooting counts 100%!
• There are three definitive rules for this category. Either
(1) you attended the main campus of that school for a minimum of one academic year including one summer session,
(2) you are under the age of 18, or
(3) you currently work for said school’s main campus (in any capacity) for a minimum of 5 years.
• For example: I attended the main campuses and graduated from both the University of Florida and the University of Arkansas therefore I can root for them with100% credibility. While growing up in Connecticut, I rooted for UCONN. This rooting had 100% credibility, until I was 18. I did not attend this school and I moved away, so when I yell “Go Huskies!” (and I love yelling that) my rooting credibility is reduced to 25%.

Rooting counts 75%!
• Your child attended the main campus of a school for a minimum of one academic year including one summer session.
• You currently work for said school’s main campus (in any capacity) for more than 3 years and less than 5 years.
• For example: My mother and father who did not attend the University of Florida or the University of Arkansas can root for them with 75% credibility.

Rooting counts 50%!
• You are in any form of domestic partnership with someone that holds 100% credibility.
• You are in a relationship for over 8 months and are not officially living together with someone that holds 100% credibility.
• You are in a relationship (with someone that holds 100% credibility) and have been officially living together for 3 months (you may ignore the 3 month guideline if you have been dating for a respectable amount of time prior to officially moving in together).
• You currently work for said school’s main campus (in any capacity) for less than 3 years.
• You currently live in the county where the main campus of school resides for a minimum of 4 years (if you previously did and moved, or you have lived there under 4 years, then you go to the 25% credibility level).
• One of your parents played on the college team for the specific sport you are rooting for (e.g. you father was on the football team so your football rooting credibility is 50%).
• For example: My lovely wife graduated from Michigan State’s main campus. When I yell “Go Sparty!!!” with 100% love and good knowledge of the team, that rooting only holds 50% credibility. Also, I currently reside in Orange county (for over 4 years), the same county that has the University of Central Florida (UCF). If I choose to I can root for UCF with 50% credibility. But just because I hold this power, it doesn’t mean I’m going to exploit it.

Rooting counts 25%!
• You are in a relationship (with someone that holds 100% credibility) for less than 8 months and are not officially living together.
• You grew up in the area where this college was located.
• You attended a satellite campus of this school for a minimum of one academic year including one summer session.
• You are in any form of domestic partnership or relationship with someone that holds 75% or less rooting credibility.
• For example: If I attended school for a minimum of one academic year, including one summer session, at the University of Minnesota’s satellite campus in Rochester, and not their Twin Cities main campus, when I cheer for good ol’ Goldy Gopher it’s only holds 25% credibility.

Rooting counts 10%!
• Your parents attended the main campus of that school for a minimum of one academic year including one summer session.
• You are dating and/or friends with benefits, and/or got “lucky” you crazy chap or chapette with an individual that has 100% credibility.
• For example: Ann Curry say’s “Yo! I totally crushed it last night with that rad sophomore from Gonzaga!” Ann Curry’s father says, “Well then you can root for Gonzaga with 10% credibility. When do we meet this fine young man?”

Rooting counts 0%!
• You know if you’re here, but don’t feel too bad about it because you’ll always have professional sports and the Olympics
• You have wooden words in your house (this has nothing to do with sports, I just think it’s weird)
• You truly like “Cleatus” the FOX Sports robot. If this is the case you actually lose credibility in general life and may Darwin Bless Your Soul as you continue through your existence.

THE GOSPEL of ROOTING is very clear (except for the parts that aren’t that clear) but I am open to amendments. I may be the wisest in this area, but I will still hear you out and then probably drink a milkshake. In addition, this list may confirm your beliefs or make you feel yucky. As a professional I encourage you to look deeply into that yuckiness and sit with it. Feel the yuckiness and I promise you that the pain will go away eventually. And hey! I never said you couldn’t root for your team; just understand that credibility defines it a bit more. You also may be thinking, “I don’t care what others think” but that’s never been true for anyone in the history of life … the history of life. Go Sports!